Excerpts From the Diary of Sam Winchester
by Swellison
Summary: These chapters are first person entries from Sam's diary. Chapter 9 Restless. Spoilers for No Rest For the Wicked. Sam's thoughts after NRFTW. Posted as part of livejournal's Summer of Sam. Tissue alert Minor spoilers for Lazarus Rising and IKWYDLS
1. Chapter 1 Getting to Know You

-1Author's note:

Well, Sam kind of got short shrift in my first story, Of Pride and Thankfulness. I'm just learning the ropes here, didn't realize that you need to add comments in front of the story and can only upload everything once. OP&T was my attempt to make sense of the 2 years silence between the boys that Dean referred to, despite Sam's obviously having been at college for 4 years, the infamous timeline screw up in the Pilot. So, I'm presenting Sam's diary entries, to show things from Sam's point of view.

Excerpts From the Diary of Sam Winchester by Swellison

This Diary Belongs to Sam Winchester - Stanford University

Monday, April 28, 2004

Well, I did it. I asked Jessica out to dinner this Friday. She said "Yes", seemed surprised by the week's notice. We've been doing dinner & a movie (at the campus theatre with pizza or burgers) on the fly or grabbing a bite to eat after studying for the last two months. I told her this was special, "after five attire" required. I'll be wearing my one good three-piece suit, from my high school prom. I wound up not going, because of that damn ghoul that we had to take care of instead. Good thing I bought a plain black suit and not something color-coordinated to Leslie's dress. At least it still fits; I may've grown up since then, but I haven't grown any taller. Dean would probably disown me if I gained another inch on him, and Dad… well, Dad already has, hasn't he?

Anyway, Jessica said "Yes."

It was serendipity, us meeting when her micro-recorder broke. She approached me after class and asked if she could borrow my notes, explaining that her recorder had croaked early in the lecture. Prettiest girl in the class, and her smile… She didn't say anything about me being one of the only students who didn't use a recorder, either. (I've overheard some of the students in my other classes speculating that I couldn't afford a micro-recorder and must be one of those Peanut Butter & Jelly scholars.) I handed her my notebook and she flipped it open, then paused. "Oh, is this shorthand?"

I taught myself shorthand several years ago. After all, you can't write down notes about incantations, demonic possession, dismemberment and the like in plain English, for anyone to read. When I got to Stanford, I just continued to use shorthand, without thinking about it. "Oh," I think I blushed. "I use shorthand to get all of Professor Sillsbee's comments - he talks a mile a minute. I'll be glad to er, translate for you, though. We can do it now, if you like?" Jessica had to get to another class, but we agreed to meet afterwards, at the Student Union.

Well, as they say in Casablanca, it was the start of a beautiful friendship. We started studying together, and that branched into hanging out with friends and taking in the occasional movie. Now, I want more, and I hope she does, too. I'll find out Friday.

Saturday, May 3, 2004

Last night was the Big Date.

Jessica let me drive her car, since I knew where we were going and she didn't. It's a metallic blue PT Cruiser. Dean would snort and make some remark about it being a pseudo-retro wannabe, but, hey, it fit all six feet four of me, so I'm not complaining. We went to Guidry's and the valet whistled when Jess got out. I probably did, too, 'cause she looked amazing. She was wearing this shimmery blue dress with a beaded V-neck and a bare back. Sheesh, I sound like a Vogue editor, or something. To put it in Dean's words, she was beyond hot.

She was impressed by the restaurant, too. I picked Guidry's because it had three stars in Zagat's and the atmosphere was described as intimate and luxurious. Jessica mentioned that she knew how hard it was to get reservations. I didn't tell her that I employed one of Dean's intimidation techniques to get the reservations, I just smiled and nodded.

The wait staff treated us right, making sure we were amply supplied with drinks and food, but had plenty of alone-time, too.

We started off with small talk. First, I complimented her on her dress, said it matched her eyes. She smiled, "Blue's my favorite color, cool and calming. It's also the color of the sky, reminding me how limitless it is, and I like that, too. What's your favorite color?"

"Green." The color of Dean's eyes, full of caring and concern from childhood. But I could hardly tell her that, so I improvised. "The color of nature and all living things. The color of hope." Then I took refuge in my water glass.

The waiter appeared with our drink order, a fine California Pinot Chardonnay. (I asked Becca what wine I should order and she said, "You can't go wrong with a good California Chardonnay." She was right.) The first toast was a no-brainer. "Good luck on finals!" We still had another week of final exams to go, including our shared history class on Wednesday.

"Seriously, Sam. I want to thank you for studying with me. I know I've benefited from your unique perspective of the class."

"Unique perspective?" I asked, not getting it.

"The majority of the class is history majors, like me. But you're not a history major, so why'd you take the class?"

"I needed to beef up my humanities requirements, and it looked like an easy course."

Jessica's eyes widened in surprise. "An easy course? You thought 'Last of the Dark Ages, Pre-Medieval European History' was an easy course? Most of the history majors I know groan when they mention any course that Sillsbee teaches, let alone this one."

Oops. How could I tell Jessica that I knew the Dark Ages like I knew the back of my hand, since the period produced a lot of the source books defining and outlining how to fight the Supernatural? Books I'd practically read from cover to cover over the years. Pastor Jim had drilled the history into us, too. He was big on learning from history, and not repeating the mistakes of others.

I shrugged. "The early Middle Ages are a hobby of mine, I've read a lot on the period. I knew the material and getting a professor's views on it was appealing, plus I was adding to my humanities credits. A win-win situation."

Jess smiled. "Like I said, a unique perspective. You're an interesting man, Sam Winchester."

"I hope you don't mean that in the Chinese way," I muttered.

Jessica caught my reference to the Chinese curse about living in interesting times, oblique as it was. I'm beginning to see that Jessica understands me very well, even though there's tons about me that she'll never know. "I meant that I'd like to know you better."

That made my next toast obvious. "To getting to know you."

The waiter reappeared to take our order. We skipped appetizers and went straight for the main course. I ordered a New York strip steak, Jessica ordered the wild mushroom risotto, on the menu as a Chef's Specialty. After the waiter left, she asked me where I was from.

I'd already decided exactly how I'd answer that question. "I was born in Lawrence, Kansas - but we moved around a lot. I guess you could say I'm from all over." Then, to divert attention, I asked, "Where are you from?"

"I'm a local, Sam. Born and raised in Palo Alto -- sometimes I think I'll die here, too. For awhile, I thought college would be my big chance to leave California, go to the University of Michigan or Pennsylvania, but… Stanford's in my blood. My mother met my father at Stanford, and they both loved the place, still do.

"And now I sound like I'm looking for an MRS degree, don't I? I'm not, I just decided that Stanford was a good fit for me, close to home and they have an outstanding medieval history program. My older brother, Lee, is going to Rice; he's a second-year med student, and my younger sister, Veronica, wants to go to Sacramento State, for reasons that escape me."

Shortly after that, our entrees arrived and we concentrated on eating. The food was fabulous, well worth the intimidation tactics I'd employed to get our reservation. We talked about our summer plans over dinner. Jess is toying with the idea of taking a summer course in England, I said more than likely I'd take a construction job in town, either working on a road crew or building houses. The pay's good, and it'll keep me in shape.

We ordered dessert. I went for the chocolate mousse, Jessica wanted the Strawberries Romanoff.

"You know, Sam, I don't know much about you, besides the fact that you're a genius, with a full scholarship. I don't even know your birthday, or anything."

"Funny you should say that. Today's my twenty-first birthday."

"Really? But, you should be out celebrating, having a party, or something!"

"I am. I'm with exactly who I want to be with."

Jessica smiled, pleased. Then another thought crossed her mind and she half-whispered. "At least one of us is drinking legally, then."

I nodded. Act like an adult and people tended to treat you like an adult. They also tended to overestimate my age; one of the advantages of my being extra-tall. "So, when's your birthday?"

"January twenty-fourth."

"But that's Dean's birthday!" I couldn't help it; I said the first thing that came to my mind.

"Dean? Who's Dean?"

Oops, well, you know what they say about the best-laid plans. "He's my only brother. Dean was born on January 24, 1979."

"Oh. You didn't mention him, earlier." Jess didn't add "why not?", but I heard it, loud and clear.

"Jess." She looked up at me, hearing the serious tone that my voice had taken. "I don't talk about my family very much. My Mom died when I was a baby; I don't remember her at all. My Dad - well, he threw himself into his work, after that. Dean practically raised me."

Jess reached out to pat my hand. "I'm so sorry, Sam."

"Thank you." I took a deep breath, and continued. "As I told you before, we moved around a lot. As we grew older, Dean joined my Dad in his work, but I wanted something different, so I came to Stanford. Dad didn't take my decision to leave very well, at all. We haven't spoken since." And that's as much as I'm going to tell Jess about my past, far more than I originally intended.

"Sam, that's dreadful."

"He had his reasons. One thing you need to know about the Winchesters, Jess, we're a stubborn lot. Dean --Dean got stuck in the middle, but he stayed with Dad. When I first got here, Dean and I kept in touch, but... I haven't heard from him in a long time." Not that I didn't jump every time the phone rang, expecting it to be Dean, with good news, or bad news, or something in-between. Don't ask me why I don't take the initiative and call Dean, I've got from one to a hundred reasons for that, depending on mood.

"Sam… I don't know what to say."

"I'm telling you this because you're important to me. I want to continue seeing you, Jess, and you deserve to know about my family."

"Thanks for being honest with me Sam. I want to continue seeing you, too." Honest? I could hear Dean's disbelieving voice in my mind, but I ignored it. I was being as honest as I could be.

We ended the evening with a nice, romantic stroll through the campus park - and a little necking. Dean would be proud of me.

Dean. I still can't believe Dean and Jess have the same birthday, what an incredible coincidence. Guess I'll take it as Dean's tacit approval. "Whatever makes you happy, Sammy." She does, Dean. Jessica makes me happy.


	2. Chapter 2 From the Heart

From the Heart

By Swellison

Friday, December 8, 2004

I waylaid Becca Warren after her last class, offering to treat her to coffee at the gang's internet café. She looked at me assessingly, in a way that reminded me of Dean, and then nodded her agreement. Barely fifteen minutes later, we were ensconced in a booth at Joe's Coffee Network, nursing steaming hot lattes.

"So, Sam," Becca said, placing her mug on the table after a deep sip, "what's on your mind?"

"A couple of things, actually." I set my latte down on the table. "First, I won't be spending Christmas with you and Zach this year." Zach Warren and I were roommates in the dorm freshman year. We got to know each other quickly, and when Zach discovered that I was at loose ends for the Christmas break, he had insisted that I go home with him and Becca to St. Louis. Zach and I remained roommates for our sophomore year, and then we got separate digs, but I continued to spend Christmas break with the Warren family. Mr. and Mrs. Warren flew in from Paris, various other Warren relations joined and the house was packed with people and merriment—vastly different from my childhood Christmases.

I brought my thoughts back to the present. "You know I appreciate the offer, but Jessica's invited me to join her family for the holidays this year."

"Wow, two weeks with Jessica's parents and siblings, sounds scary to me," Becca teased.

I snorted. I'm John Winchester's son—and nobody's parents are scarier than that. "Not really. I'm looking forward to it, actually. I mean an extended stay with Jessica's family, that's an important milestone in our relationship, right?" I've been using Becca as my guide to all things female ever since we met, on my second day at Stanford. Zach introduced me to his older (and much shorter) sister, and I've been impressed by her honesty, sense of humor and genuine caring since day one.

I lucked out when Stanford's dorm matching program randomly selected two 'W's—Zach Warren and Sam Winchester--to be roommates. Dean would've said that was just me, getting the best of the Winchester luck, as usual. Except for the extra cookie, Dad's meager reward for following instructions and obeying orders. Dean always got that—although at least half the time, he'd shared it with me, if he hadn't flat-out given me the cookie.

"Absolutely."

"Yeah." I agreed with Becca, and then got to my second point. "Speaking of milestones, there's another one coming up soon, Jessica's birthday. It's her twenty-first and I want to get her something special."

"I'm sure Jessica will be thrilled with anything you give her, Sam."

"I know, but… it's important and I want to get her something nice, something extra special. I was thinking jewelry---not a ring," I added hastily. "We're not ready for that, but I think we may be, some day." I'd known Jessica for almost a year, and we'd been dating for just over seven months, since my last birthday.

"There's a song in Camelot that covers your situation," Becca said after a thoughtful sip of her latte.

I gazed at her blankly. Over the years, Dean and I had watched every horror and action movie known to man, in one hotel room or the other, but Winchesters did not do chick-flick movies, especially chick-flick _musicals._

"Jewelry is a fine idea, Sam. But if you're really out to impress her, get Jessica a gift from the heart. Give her something meaningful to you, and you'll underscore that she's a significant, major part of your life—and what girl can resist that?"

"From the heart," I repeated, mulling Becca's words over. Heart…heartland. Something special—suddenly I knew exactly what Jessica's present was going to be. "Becca, don't you have a friend who makes jewelry?"

"Custom jewelry," Becca corrected. "My second cousin, Corinne, 'jewelry designer to the stars'. She has a boutique on Rodeo Drive. "

"Perfect."

"Sam, jewelry can be expensive—especially custom jewelry."

"That's no problem; I can afford it." I assured Becca.

She stared at me. "Just how much did you win, gambling at Lake Tahoe anyway?" I must've looked non-plussed. "A couple of Zach's friends saw you. They told Zach and he told me. You know my little brother can't keep any secrets from me." Becca glanced at me, with worry in her eyes. Dean's look.

"Relax, Becca. I started with the slot machines and blackjack table, raising a stake for the poker game. I would've quit if I lost two hundred dollars." I didn't tell Becca that the odds of that happening were astronomical; Winchesters played to win and Dean was the only one who routinely beat me at poker. "I just played that last day of our ski trip, while Jessica, Zach and the others were on the expert slopes." Who knew a California girl like Jessica was such an ardent skier? She'd hung around the bunny hill and the intermediate slopes with me for most of the weekend, until I practically made her spend the last day enjoying herself on the multi-black diamond trails. I told her I'd hang out in the lodge, studying. Not exactly the truth, but a believable lie. Besides, I did get some studying in, before I left for another hotel's casino. "I had a goal in mind, and when I won that much, I quit." I conveniently omitted the amount of my goal—ten thousand dollars, a nice even number.

Becca still seemed worried, so I told her why I went gambling. "Jessica and I are planning on renting a place together next fall. Sooner, if something becomes available before that. I needed the extra money for the security deposit, moving expenses—you name it. And now I've got it."

"Sam Winchester, you're an enigma. And I love a good mystery. If you weren't my little brother's best friend and already taken…" She trailed off suggestively and winked, back in teasing mode.

We finished our lattes and went our separate ways. Finals were fast approaching and I still had a term paper to finish. Becca's plate was full of grad school stuff, which she smilingly told me I'd find out all about in the not-too-distant future.

"I'll get in touch with Corinne, and get you the family discount." Becca said as we parted at the doorway.

Later, I took a break from cramming for finals to do a rough sketch of the necklace I wanted Corinne to design. I let my thoughts wander as I drew a sunflower, the official state flower of Kansas. Becca said my gift should be meaningful. And meaningful to me has always had a sense of permanence attached. I know there's damn little that's permanent in my life, but my birthplace is one. Dean would sneer at the idea of anything good and permanent coming from Lawrence, but I'm not my brother. Besides, Lawrence is our birthplace. The real one, not just a town used on a fake ID.

I checked out a few gem sites, getting ideas for the types of stones to use in the design. Well, I'd have to iron that out with Corinne, anyway, but at least I got a few things to suggest. Becca, prompt as usual, has emailed me Corinne's address and phone number, saying I should wait till next week to contact her, let Becca talk to her first, and arrange my discount.

As I went back to staring at the sunflower, a thought crossed my mind and I searched for a language of flowers website, just to be sure that sunflowers didn't harbor some out-of-kilter Victorian floral meaning I was unaware of. Turned out sunflower means loyalty and wishes, perfect for a birthday present.

I could just see Dean rolling his eyes, "Victorian flower language? What kind of books do you read, Samantha?"

All kinds. Aside from the stupendous amount of ancient texts and more modern books on the supernatural, I read fantasy, mystery, sci-fi, the classics, biographies, plays, yadda, yadda, yadda. Before Stanford, I hadn't owned many books, but I'd borrowed several bookshelves' worth from libraries across the country. I remember the first Pern book I checked out, and reading the dust jacket bio of Anne McCaffrey: "I have green eyes, silver hair and freckles. The rest changes without notice." Then I delved headfirst into the fantastical world of Pern and its highly believable dragons. Maybe the dragon descriptions felt so convincingly real because they _were_ real? Not on Pern, but somewhere Earth-bound. Huh. Anne McCaffrey a hunter? Dean would laugh his ass off at the notion…and no one else would get the joke. Yeah, welcome to the seriously warped Winchester world.

The online radio chose that moment to blare 'Hotel California' through my earphones. "…You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." I snatched the earphones off my head and halted the online radio connection. But I _had_ left, and despite a rocky start—being tossed out of our home by Dad for wanting to get a higher education isn't something I'll ever understand—I have absorbed and thrived on the normal life of an everyday college student at Stanford. And now I really need to get back to studying; it's the end of the term next week and finals are looming.

Wednesday, January 24, 2005

I smoothed the freshly-purchased solid red tablecloth over our round kitchen table, a hand-me down from Jessica's mother. Then I carefully set the table with half of the Mikasa china service for four that had been the Moore's housewarming gift. I still can't believe that just before winter term started, this place had become available and after one look, we'd snatched it up, certain that this cozy little third-story unit was destined to be ours. And now it was.

Glancing at the clock to see how I was doing, time-wise, I stepped over to the refrigerator and extracted two white boxes filled with our pre-made dinner. Louis had recommended a "just like home cooking" website, with the food cooked to order by a Stanford student's mother, who happened to be an awesome cook with an astounding range of skills, according to the website reviews. I ordered a beef stroganoff dinner for two for our first meal in the new apartment, a trial run of her cooking prowess, which the lady passed with flying colors. So I'm confident that Jessica and I will enjoy tonight's carefully orchestrated meal, too.

Jessica's last class ends at five today, and it takes about twenty minutes to walk home from campus, so I still have almost half an hour for last minute touches. I slipped the food onto oven-worthy plates and popped them into the stove. Steak just doesn't taste the same after being micro-waved, so I was re-heating the old-fashioned way.

The gang will be coming over Saturday for a pizza and birthday cake party and I know Jessica's looking forward to that. But tonight—tonight is just for the two of us. Winchester celebrations have always been small— me, Dad and Dean, which increasingly became just me and Dean as we got older.

I placed the two red candlesticks in the candleholders, knowing how much Jessica appreciates a romantic atmosphere. Romance. It doesn't even crack my top ten list of uses for candles, but that's my old life. I lit the candles, watched their flames flicker and remembered Christmas at the Moore's, and a taste of my new life...

I couldn't get to sleep. The Moore's guest room had a desk, a TV with cable, a walk-in closet and a king-sized bed – all in beautifully matched Mission-style furniture. It was almost as big as some of the motel rooms I'd stayed in with my family over the years, and way bigger than any bedroom that Dean and I had shared. It was Christmas Eve—past two, so really early Christmas morning. I don't know, maybe the silence got to me. I was used to a roommate—first Dean, then Zach, and lately Jessica had slept over. Her parents weren't clueless, but Jessica had made it clear that we would have separate rooms while staying under her parents' roof and I was okay with that. "My house, my rules" was one of Dad's quickest comebacks when I started questioning his decisions.

Anyway, I crept downstairs and ended up in the living room, staring at their Christmas tree. It was huge—filled the bay window completely, top to bottom. Strands of multi-colored tree lights cast the room in a warm glow and I sat on the comfortable white couch, angled for the best viewing of the tree. I took in the tree from its white and silver angel topper to the branches artfully decorated with ornaments, lights and tinsel, to the dozens of presents of varying shapes and sizes that circled the bottom of the tree. The brightly-packaged gifts all but covered the red and green velvet tree skirt, and I knew that some of those carefully-wrapped presents had my name on them. I shook my head, marveling that _this_ was what people conjured up when they thought about Christmas; this was normal for most people.

Even caught up in thought, I heard someone enter the room behind me and I jerked my head around, to see Jessica standing in the doorway. She smoothed her floor-length robe, padded over to the couch and sat down next to me, resting her head on my shoulder and curling her legs underneath her on the couch cushion. "I used to do this, too, as a kid. Sneak down and look at the tree, all bright and sparkling." Her voice was warmly content, if a tad sleepy. "Never did catch Santa at work, though."

"That sounds just like you, Jessie."

"Hey." She raised her head from my shoulder, now wide awake. "I hate that name."

"But I heard your sister using it at dinner—" I protested, startled.

"That's different; she's family. Ronnie's been calling me that since she was three- she won't stop now."

"Oh." I got it; I understood all about family nicknames. "I'm sorry, Jess—"

"Shhh," she put her finger to my lips, cutting me off mid-word. "Jess—I like that. In fact, coming from you—I love it."

"Jess." I rolled the word around, consideringly. "Short and sweet, like you." I teased gently. Sam and Jess—it has a nice ring to it. We sat gazing at the tree for a while longer, Jess probably remembering past Christmases, me thinking maybe we were starting a new Christmas tradition.

The dinging of the timer yanked me back to the present. I flicked off the timer and opened the oven door, checking the food for doneness. I carefully transferred the steak and wild mushroom risotto to the table, putting half of the New York strip steak on my plate and half on Jessica's, also doling out the risotto in equal amounts. Last, I placed the vegetable medley in a bowl and set it in the center of the table, between the two candlesticks. Then I stepped to the refrigerator and extracted the bottle of Chardonnay—Napa Valley, I'd checked with Guidry's to see what brand they served. I stepped back and admired the feast set in front of me—an exact duplicate of our restaurant selections on my birthday, when I first told Jessica I was serious about dating her. Only this time, we'll be sharing everything half and half, as equals. I was maybe being a bit heavy-handed with the symbolism, but I wanted Jessica to know that we were partners—in our new residence, in our future together. I can't give her much of my past, but I want Jess to know that the present and the future are all ours.

I heard the front door open, a slight thud as a backpack was dropped on the entry way table, and then Jessica walked into the kitchen.

"Happy birthday, Jess!" I smiled, crossing the room to wrap my arms around her in a birthday hug.

She happily returned the hug, and then took in the table as we separated. "Oh, Sam, this is—marvelous!" I escorted her to her chair, pulling it out and gesturing her to sit, as any good waiter would. Then I quickly poured her a glass of wine, followed by a second glass for me. I stepped back to the opposite side of the table and seated myself.

Bringing my glass of chardonnay up to clink against hers, I toasted. "Happy Birthday!"

We clinked glasses, Jess's eyes meeting mine and sparkling with pleasure. She glanced down at her plate as she lifted her silverware, preparatory to slicing into the steak. "This is…. Sam, you didn't! This is our meal from your birthday at Guidry's!"

"More like a duplication of it," I corrected, but I was beaming. She remembered, and from the way her smile brightened, I'm pretty sure she understood why we both have half-portions of everything. Share and share alike. "I sure hope it tastes as good as it looks," I said, digging into my steak.

We didn't talk very much for the next few minutes, both eagerly tasting the meal and finding out that it did taste at least as good as it looked. All those website reviewers weren't lying when they extolled the praises of this mother-chef. Jessica pronounced the wild mushroom risotto excellent, and I had to agree, although Dean would never agree that anything vegetable-based could be excellent. The steak was equally fine, and Jessica ate hers almost as quickly as I did mine. We lingered slightly over the vegetable medley, catching up on each other's day.

I efficiently bussed the table, insisting that Jess stay put. It only took minutes to stack the dishes in the dishwasher—a marvelous invention and something that most of the Winchester kitchens lacked while I was growing up. Doing the dishes was one of Dad's least-imaginative punishments for sloppy training exercises, but that was another life. I snatched up the gaily-wrapped present from its hiding place inside the bread box and returned to the table.

I placed the present in front of Jessica, and sat on the chair immediately to her right.

"Oh, honey, you shouldn't have." She protested, but her eyes and hands were drawn to the small gift.

"Of course I should've—it's your birthday. Open it."

I watched as Jessica's hands made short work of the wrapping paper, exposing a flat, rectangular gold foil box. She lifted the lid and stared at the jewelry nestled inside as I softly explained. "I told you I was born in Kansas. The sunflower is the state flower of Kansas." Her right hand delicately fingered the small faceted smoky quartz bits that made up the brown seeded center of the sunflower pendant and then touched on the surrounding baguettes of topaz, cut to resemble the yellow petal-like flowers of a sunflower. The gemstones were set in 14 carat gold, on a gold box chain. The matching earrings were about two inches long, twined golden stalks with two smoky quartz and topaz sunflowers at their tops. Two sunflowers because I wanted Jessica to know that, just like the earrings, we are a pair.

"It's gorgeous, Sam. I've never seen anything like it." She picked up the necklace and held it out to me.  
"Put it on me, please?" She leaned closer to my chair, turning so her back faced me and waited while I draped the necklace around her neck. "Kansas is considered part of America's heartland," I said as I tripped open the lobster claw catch and then closed it. "You're my heart, Jess," I whispered in her ear. "I want you to remember that, every time you wear this."

Her hand reached for mine and squeezed it. "I will, Sam." She pulled back into her chair, and took a few seconds to slip the earrings on, too. She smiled at me. "How do I look?"

"Amazing." The necklace perfectly fit in with her light blue scooped neck blouse, and the earrings sparkled brightly through the long blonde strands of Jess's hair, swaying slightly. She looked good enough to eat… suddenly, I remembered the cake. "Close your eyes, Jess," I said, rising to my feet.

Jess obediently closed her eyes, and refrained from commenting while I quickly lit the candles on the petit cake that was the last item on today's special menu. I placed the red velvet cake—Jess's favorite, I'd checked with Ronnie about that—with twenty-one lit candles outlining its heart-shaped form on the table, and then scooted around it to my seat. "Okay, you can open them."

Jess's eyes snapped open and she squealed over the cake, making me smile. Man, I love this girl. As I watched Jess blow out the candles, I took a moment to acknowledge whose day it was, for as long as I could remember.

_Happy Birthday, Dean. _I sent good vibes out to my brother, wherever he was, adding a heart-felt wish. _Stay safe. _


	3. Chapter 3 PostShadow

Post-Shadow

By Swellison

I hurt Dean tonight. Yeah, I know, get in line. The daevas trashed us both pretty thoroughly. Dean has four deep scratches scored into his forehead and a cut perilously close to his right eye… but that's just physical injuries. Dean would shrug and say, "Comes with the territory." I hurt him where you can't see it, where it matters. In the heart.

And I didn't even know that I was doing it, at the time. God, how solipsistic can I get?

We were talking about maybe confronting the demon, with the heady thought that this all might be over. And then what? I facetiously said I'd sleep for a month, then I got serious. Said I'd be a person again, and go back to college.

Dean echoed me. "You wanna go back to school?"

"Yeah, once we're done hunting this thing." I felt an abrupt change in the room's atmosphere and Dean hmphed.

I asked him if there was something wrong with that.

"No, no. It's great, good for you."

I tried not to snap back, tried to coax Dean into thinking about the future, too. "What're you gonna do when it's all over?"

"It's never gonna be over. There'll be others. There's always going to be something to hunt." I heard fatalism in Dean's voice and it scared me. Dean was trapped in the life that he led; he couldn't see any other options. I tried to get him to see that there were other possibilities, asked him what he wanted. His answer floored me.

"You, and me, and Dad. I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again." That was Dean saying that, my tough-as-nails older brother who sneers at anything supernatural in his path, and is totally anti-chick flick moment. Baring his heart to me, telling me that his whole world is the three of us. He wants the past, I want the future.

We're on a collision course, and we both can't get what we want. I tried to tell him that, as gently as I could. "Dean, we are a family. I'd do anything for you, but things will never be the way they were before."

At his insistence that they could be, I said "I don't want them to be. I'm not gonna live this life forever. Dean, when this is all over, you're gonna have to let me go my own way." I watched my words go through him. I'd just stomped on his most cherished hope and dream, like the daevas would later stomp all over us.

Suddenly, I'm remembering the time that Jess accused me of being spoiled.

"Me - spoiled?" I looked at her like she was an alien, or something, because, man there's no way that I'm spoiled, given the life I led pre-Stanford.

"Yes, you. I'm a middle child, and I know spoiled when I see it. You're the cherished baby of the family - and it shows. Not all the time, but every once in a while…"

I denied it again, rigorously, and Jess humored me, and let the subject drop.

Well, I see her point now. I talked to Dean as if my wants and needs superseded his, end of discussion. Spoiled brat doesn't even begin to cover it. And talk about your words coming back to bite you…

We finally found Dad!! Or rather, he found us. Dean walked into his arms, sure of his welcome and so glad to see Dad again.

I inched further into the room, watching from the sidelines. Dean apologized for not recognizing the trap, and Dad said the demon had tried to trap him before. Then he turned his attention to me. "Been a long time, Sam."

"Too long." We exchanged looks, and I swear I could feel Dad's eyes asking _Do you want a hug? _

I answered with a barely-perceptible nod and we hugged. I couldn't see Dean, but I knew he was drinking in the sight of me and Dad in each other's arms instead of at each other's throats. It felt good; it felt… right.

Just when all that was sinking in, the daevas attacked again, and all Hell broke loose. We escaped the hotel and the daevas, thanks to a well-placed flare - and Dad left us, again. I pleaded with him to stay with us, but Dean said no, it wasn't safe. And Dad said "You have to let me go."

Ouch. That hurt, on so many levels…

Watching Dad drive away was just the perfect ending to a perfectly awful night. But it didn't end there; we stopped at an ER on the outskirts of Chicago, got stitched up, and then crashed at a motel.

Guess I really shouldn't be surprised that I dreamed about Jessica, what with mentioning school and all .… It unfolded all over again, the blood dripping on my face, seeing Jess pinned to the ceiling, a wide swath of blood on her nightgown, and then the flames…. I woke myself up, managed to not wake up Dean, which is unusual, really. He must've actually taken the recommended dose of painkillers, for once - another sign that he's hurting.

Anyway, Jess. A reminder that when I do go back to school, it isn't going to be the same, either. Jess won't be there, the gang will all have graduated: Zach, Eddie, Becca, Tiffany, Louis, Rodney…

I wonder if Rodney's a CPA now?

We met as sophomores. Rodney was a typical college student, quiet and a bit reserved. We'd arranged a study session for our math class, at his dorm room. I got there and he was glued to the TV, watching CNN. A high-rise had caught on fire, somewhere back East, and several fire trucks had been called to the four-alarm fire. "Ladder 8 - that's my Dad's unit," Rodney said tersely, not taking his eyes off the screen. "There's two known fatalities and a dozen injured, including four firefighters."

The station broke for a commercial. Rodney muted the set and explained. "My older brother Steve's there - he's a fireman, too. My sister Laura's a probie. I'm from a fire family - I've also got two uncles and three cousins in the department. And my grandpa was an assistant fire chief. The Allinghams have been associated with Wilmington's fire department practically since colonial times. As Dad says, 'Fire is in my blood.'"

The commercials ended, but CNN had a story about a plane having to make an emergency landing. Rod muted the sound, keeping an eye on the TV screen.

"So, your Dad and brother are firemen. You must be so proud of them."

"I am. Dad's a Captain, and Steve's a great fireman - but he's an even better brother. He helped me break the news to Dad that

I didn't want to follow in his footsteps; I wanted to be an accountant." Rod looked at me, like he was expecting me to say something about his career choice.

I knew exactly where he was coming from. The insider's view of the dangerous life that his family led, the sacrifices and isolation that went with the glamour of saving lives and fighting fire. I understood Rod's desire for a normal life; it was my own.

"And Steve backed me a hundred percent when I decided to go to Stanford. Like I said, he's an awesome big brother."

"Yeah, awesome," I echoed, wishing Dean had backed my decision to go to Stanford anywhere near a hundred percent.

Just then, Rod's cell rang and he snatched it up. "Hello… Mom?….. Yeah, I saw it on CNN…. Thank goodness…. I'll call you later tonight…. Give my love to Dad and Steve. Bye." He pocketed his cell and sighed. "Dad's fine - he wasn't injured. Steve was, but it's just smoke inhalation, nothing to worry about. The fire's contained; they should have it out in the next hour or so."

"That's great news," I said. We decided to postpone the studying until tomorrow.

Guess my thoughts are all over the map tonight - or should I say this morning? It's close to 2 AM, but I'm not even going to try to get back to sleep. I don't need the nightmares.

Jessica's gone, Dad left, and the daevas beat the crap out of us. The world pretty much sucks.

So much for writing it all down to gain perspective and clarity.

I'm going to watch over Dean, make sure nothing else hurts him. I love my brother. But how do I tell him that I still don't want to be a fireman?


	4. Chapter 4 Playthings the Morning After

The Morning After - Playthings

I couldn't save Ava - hell, I can't even find her, not even after looking for a solid month. We stayed in Peoria so long that we had to swap motel rooms four times, and I called the Peoria PD so many times that they recognized my voice - well, Ava's second cousin Ross Thompkins' voice, anyway. All for naught; she just vanished, hijacked by a Demon.

So, back to Plan A. Save as many as I can. I told Dean about the haunted inn in Connecticut, and we took off, heading for Cornwall.

We were starting to piece it together, and find answers. I was searching the internet, when I heard a vehicle pull up into the driveway. I looked out the window, and saw a coroner's wagon and knew that I failed. Again. I needed to save as many people as I could… as if any amount of Good will balance out my destiny.

I'm a ticking time bomb of pure Evil. Is it any wonder I sought to get bombed?

Nice thing about classy hotels; they always have a bar on the premises. This one was small and stark, all black and white. The ubiquitous Sherwin was tending bar and he didn't bat an eyelash as I downed four tequila shots in a row. Smart guy.

But Winchesters don't get drunk in public, so the next time I opened my mouth, I asked for the bottle of Jager I spotted, lined up in the bar's mirror - to go. As an afterthought, I added the bottle of Jack Daniels - for Dean, really.

I got Dad's dog tags, and Dean got his flask. I buried the tags with Mom's headstone, but Dean carries that flask everywhere. Takes a swig or two when he thinks I'm not looking, too.

Anyway, Sherwin looked like he was going to protest, then he changed his mind. The inn was practically closing down around us; who else was he going to sell the liquor to? Besides, I was a guest and he knew I wasn't drinking and driving.

So I went back to the room. Dean wasn't there, and Jager always tastes best mixed with something, so… the whiskey ended up being mine, after all.

By the time Dean got back, I was buzzed. Drunk enough to tell him I agreed with Dad. And forced Dean to promise to kill me, if I ever started turning into something that I didn't want to be. I tried to thank him, got a little mushy, I think, and Dean put me to bed.

Dean's strong; strong enough to do anything necessary. I have to believe that - or we're both lost.

Oops. Feeling a bit queasy, now. Think I'm gonna hurl. Well, at least that's normal, right?


	5. Chapter 5 PostBorn Under a Bad Sign

A/N: This is one of my favorite episodes, so of course Sam is going to write about it!

Post - Born Under A Bad Sign

I took another long, hot shower. It didn't help, the hot water and soap can't reach what I'm trying to cleanse - the demon that was inside of me, Meg. I can't believe that she hijacked me for well over a week, starting when I went to get those burgers in west Texas.

I'd paid for the burgers - even the thirty cent charge for Dean's stupid extra onions - and was walking back to the motel.

"Boo!" I distinctly heard a feminine giggle, then, "Sam! Long time no see."

"Who's there?" I asked, glancing around at the parking lot. But I was the only pedestrian visible. I definitely heard that voice, though. Oh great, so now my psychic abilities include telepathy? Because I did feel another presence, in my mind.

Turned out it wasn't telepathy; I was being possessed. All the possessed people we've dealt with over the years, and it never occurred to me that it could happen to me. Talk about hunting with blinders on.

"You really don't recognize me? Well, it's been awhile since South Dakota, even longer since Chicago. And I know you've had other things on your mind."

"Meg!" I gasped, still speaking out loud, but I'd lowered my tone to a whisper.

"Not anymore," she chuckled. "Now I'm Sam."

And just like that, I learned what it meant to be truly possessed by a demon. Meg could make my body do her slightest bidding, I couldn't even flick a finger, unless she allowed it. I watched, helpless, as my body walked over to a vacant motel room three doors down from the room Dean and I shared. I picked the lock and waited in the room, ignoring my cell phone ringing every ten minutes. I heard a door slamming closed and moments later, the Impala roared to life.

That was what Meg was waiting for, and I walked over to my room and grabbed the laptop, returning to the vacant room.

Then I learned that being physically helpless wasn't the worst thing about being possessed. Meg had control of my mind, too, and she spent the rest of the night digging around in my memories.

"Tell me about the fight that you and Dean had when I met you on the road."

Suddenly, crystal -clear, I saw myself driving the Impala, pulling off to the side of the road.

"What're you doing?" I heard Dean's voice say.

"We're not going to Indiana," I said and the whole fight rolled out before me, Meg drinking in every word.

For the first time, I cursed my photographic memory, which had been so useful to me in school and was now betraying me in 3-D re-enactments of my life on the road.

Meg was relentless. "Has Dean ever hit you in anger?"

I couldn't help it, I flashed to Dean taking a swing at me in Red Lodge, when we were arguing about the nice vampires.

"Is that all? Just the one punch? C'mon, Sam, there's got to be more than that."

And I was back in St. Louis, trying to fight off Skin!Dean, ending up with his hands around my neck, choking the life out of me.

"Oh, that was intriguing, I want to know the whole story of that fight." So, of course, I obliged her, and she learned all about the shape shifter, and what happened when he took over Dean, exposing Dean's abandonment issues.

"Have you ever evened the score, and hurt Dean?"

Suddenly, I was back in the shadowy basement of Roosevelt Asylum, pointing a shotgun at Dean. "Dean. Step away from the door." The whole wrenching scene unfurled in front of me, and Meg was absorbing it, absolutely thrilled.

"Hmmm. You boys seem to lead a charmed life. What's the closest call Dean ever had?"

God help me, I was back in that ICU cubicle, listening to Dean's voice, weakly proclaiming, "I know it's not easy, but I'm gonna die. And you can't stop it." So Meg learned all about Dean's encounter with the Reaper, too.

"Okay, Sam, I think that's enough for one night." And suddenly, I was alone, in the dark. It took an effort to think, surrounded by the inky blackness, so eventually I just… drifted. Lost contact with anything that was going on, until I felt Meg's presence again. I have no idea how much time passed, it could have been mere minutes, it could have been hours, or even days.

Of course, Meg being Meg, she wanted to know more details of my life. We/I was in some motel room, somewhere - all I knew was that it was different from that last motel room, in west Texas. This time, Meg wanted to know about my collegiate life. "How did you get to Stanford?"

Suddenly, I saw myself, eighteen and being tossed out of the house by Dad, Dean a shell-shocked witness.

"Why did you leave Stanford?"

I was pinned to the kitchen floor of my apartment, Dean laughing at me and calling me "Tiger". From there, I introduced Dean to Jessica, and Dean told me that Dad was missing… So Meg learned all about my return to hunting. Her comment at the end? "Wish I made some popcorn, this is just like the movies."

Then she wanted to know about the magical Colt. She asked, I answered. It didn't do me any good to even attempt to keep the details from her, somehow, she knew/felt when I tried to hold anything back.

But the thing she asked most about was the big Demon/Winchester confrontation, beginning in Jefferson City and ending with Dad dying in that hospital. I hated revisiting that, but Meg enjoyed it. She dragged up my memories of her exorcism at Bobby's and I felt her seething as she watched, promising again and again, "You are so going to pay for that, Dean Winchester!" I got an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach hearing those words.

However, Meg wasn't ready to face Dean straightaway. She told me that she needed to practice her Sam persona and the next time she gave me a peek at what was going on in my skin, I was back at Stanford. Now I realized why Meg had me retrieve my laptop. It had the email addresses for my friends at Stanford, people Dean didn't know and wouldn't be able to get in contact with, unless he had the laptop. I knew Dean was frantically searching high and low for me, but Stanford would be far down his list of places to look. I avoided Becca, since she knew all about who I was and she'd wonder where Dean was. I looked up my other friends who were still at Stanford, even visited Jessica's grave. "I'm not a totally heartless bitch," Meg told me as I laid fresh flowers at Jess's grave. Yeah, right.

I spent a few days in Stanford, then headed for Minnesota. Meg insisted on a little detour, a surprise visit to Steve Wandall, and she made sure I was awake and aware when I slit his throat and watched him bleed to death. Then I stole Wandall's car, checked into a motel, and called Dean.

I really, really hated Meg after that, because she kept me awake and helpless the whole time she played Dean, trying to manipulate him into killing me for my own good. I watched powerless as I whacked Dean over the head with the revolver, then fled to Duluth. And again, after Dean tracked me down and chased me around the docks at Jo's bar. I watched, stunned, as I had Dean in my sights and pulled the trigger. "Psychics can't win over demons," Meg crowed as the gun fired and Dean fell into the cold, dark lake. I walked over to the deserted pier, and Meg made sure I got a good, long look at the calm water, unbroken by any air bubbles or splashing. Then Meg left me to my thoughts, and the least said about that, the better.

In retrospect, Meg lied because I was aiming the gun at Dean's heart, and it hit him in the left shoulder. I didn't learn that until Meg's final confrontation with Dean and Bobby, when she showed her true colors to Dean. I watched in helpless horror as my fist smashed into Dean's face five times, and heard my voice promising him unrelenting torment.

I've been on the receiving end of the faux-brother thing. And you can rationalize it all away later, but when it's happening,

all you see is what's in front of your eyes: your brother beating the crap out of you or choking you to death. So, once I was de-possessed, I said the first dumb thing I could think of, "Did I miss anything?" reinforcing the idea that I had no knowledge of what possessed-me did.

I blew it later in the Impala, when I talked about almost stabbing Jo to death, which clearly indicated that I was aware at least some of the time that Meg had spent with Dean. I pushed, asking what about the next time something like this happens, wanting to know that Dean had some instinct for self-preservation, if I went Darkside.

Dean's answer wasn't what I was expecting. "Sam, when Dad told me that I might have to kill you, it was only if I couldn't save you. Now, if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna save you."

Damn. When Dean said that, he sounded almost… prophetic. But I'm the one with the freaky visions, right?


	6. Chapter 6 After All Hell Breaks Loose

After All Hell Breaks Loose (Part 2)

Dean wanted to get drunk. Oh, he said he wanted to celebrate, but I knew what he meant. Idiot. As if I'd let him anywhere near alcohol, after the Yellow-Eyed Demon bashed his head against that tombstone. And he honestly thought he was driving, until I disabused him of that notion and guided him into the Impala's passenger seat. I made him take some Tylenol, too, and told him to get some sleep.

"Sleep?" Dean grumbled. "Thought you're worried I've got a concussion."

"I'll wake you up every couple of hours and make sure you know who you are. Get some rest, okay? You look like you

haven't slept in--a while." It was disconcerting, realizing that I wasn't sure exactly what day - well, night, technically - it was, nor how long I'd been… gone.

"Lookin' out for me already?" Dean murmured as he scrunched down in the seat.

"Someone has to," I said, and started the car. We were headed for Bobby's, to re-group and plan out a strategy for hunting down all those demons that had escaped from Hell. And I needed to talk to Bobby, alone, find out what had happened while I'd been gone--dead. Although I had my ideas…

I remember Dean's voice, then a sharp white pain in my back, and Dean running towards me. And that's about it, until I woke up in that abandoned cabin in Cold Oak, the most haunted town in America. There was only one bedroom, and only one bed. Did Dean get any sleep at all? I hate to think of him alone, staring at my body, drowning in memories, waiting… Waiting for my spirit to haunt him?

I didn't die alone, and I didn't die Evil. And I knew that any unfinished business I had, my brother would take care of. I had no reason to haunt anyone; I wouldn't have come back. Until Dean stepped in, made a deal with the Crossroads Demon and presto! Here I am, world, back among the living.

I know why Dean did it - I'd have done the same thing, if the situation was reversed. But… one year, Dean? How can I possibly be worthy of that kind of sacrifice?

I heard what the Demon taunted Dean with, back at the cowboy cemetery. " How certain are you that what you brought back is one hundred percent, pure Sam?"

I knew when I was possessed by Meg, and I don't feel anyone else's presence in my mind - but I saw the doubt in Dean's eyes, because of the way I dispatched Jake.

But Jake needed killing, for a lot of reasons.

Two bullets because he killed me - I knew he wasn't lying when he told me he'd killed me at the Devil's Gate. Jake knifed me in the back, not even a fair fight - and nobody gets away with that with a Winchester.

Two more bullets for what that did to Dean, because by then I'd figured out that I must've died in Dean's arms.

And the last three bullets because Jake allowed himself to turn Evil, and be the Demon's pawn, willingly. "Once you give into it, there's all sorts of new Jedi mind tricks you can learn." Jake gave into temptation; maybe I was blasting him as a substitute for the part of me that might have done the same thing, if I'd won the Yellow-Eyed Demon's insane "beauty contest."

But, wait a minute. "New Jedi mind tricks." And Ava could control demons. Could I learn to control demons, too, without going Darkside? For Dean, I could do anything. I'd picked up Max's telekinesis to get myself out of the closet, and save Dean from my vision.

We have at least a hundred demons to track down. That'll give me plenty of opportunities to practice the fine art of controlling demons.

When I've figured it out, I'll summon that Crossroads Demon and make that bitch dissolve her contract with Dean. It'll be the most loop-hole free, binding dissolution of contract the demonic world has ever seen, too. She's not getting my brother.

I have 364 days to save Dean.

A year and a day from now, I swear, I'll let Dean read this diary entry, and we'll have the biggest, drunkest chick-flick moment in Winchester history.

A/N Sorry for the multiple uploads of this, at first it showed up all in bold, then the spacing was absent, third time's a charm, right? We'll see. Please let me know what you think of my Sammy-channeling skills and review;-)


	7. Chapter 7 More Wishful Thinking

More Wishful Thinking

By Swellison

I glanced over at Dean, tucked behind the wheel of the Impala. Seeing Dean there was starting to be familiar again, as was the slight twinge of discomfort from my tightly folded knees. But I much preferred being cramped shotgun to driving solo with all the legroom in the world. We were cruising down I-90, heading east. (God, it's so good to write that—_we_—again. For too many months it was just _me_, and I hated it.) Concrete—hell, the entire state of Washington--was long behind us; we were rapidly closing in on Butte, Montana. Uncharacteristically, Dean had foregone any butt jokes and he'd failed to find an acceptable radio station, in the heart of Old West country music territory, so the Chevy's interior remained quiet as the miles rushed by.

I felt a little guilty about that, remembering Dean's dismayed look when I'd sheepishly confessed that I'd thrown out his cassette tapes last July. "I'm sorry, Dean… I was drunk at the time," I admitted, looking anywhere but at my brother. "Lot of that going around," Dean had grunted and surprisingly, he'd dropped the subject. What with one thing and another, neither one of us has gotten around to replacing the cassette tapes yet. I have no intention of reconnecting my iPod to the Impala's dashboard; Dean had made his feelings about that crystal clear.

The long drive was starting to wear on me. We'd left Concrete shortly after ten in the morning, and including breaks for lunch and dinner, had been on the road for close to twelve hours. I began to realize that Dean had no intention of stopping before Billings, which was another three hours past Butte—unless he was just going to drive straight through the night. We weren't in a tearing hurry to get anywhere; the job in Concrete was over and I haven't even started looking for a new hunt yet. So why is Dean hell-bent on driving to--? Oh. He's driving as an alternative to sleeping, to dreaming. I vividly recalled our conversation on the dock, when Dean admitted that he remembered everything that had happened to him in Hell, and he wasn't going to share any of it.I suddenly heard my own words from after the rugaru hunt, thrown back at me. "_You don't understand." "You can't understand." "I can't make you understand." _

Okay, so maybe I can't get Dean to spill the beans about his time in Hell, but I still have some tricks up my sleeve. I raised my arms in front of me, interlaced my fingers and stretched, keeping my elbows bent so I avoided contact with the windshield. At the same time, I yawned hugely. Then I canted my head toward Dean, catching my brother's unsuccessful effort to hide his own yawn by keeping his mouth as closed as possible.

"I'm tired," I said."Didn't we just pass a sign for a motel in Butte? We should stop for the night."

"Take a nap. It's barely past ten—still plenty of driving to do."

"I can't sleep in here, Dean. My legs are crammed in between the seat and the dashboard, and I don't have enough elbow room. I can't get comfortable."

"You whine like a girl, Samantha. Wuss." Dean's face turned towards me. "What are you, five? I can hear your next words already, 'Are we there yet?'"

I snorted. "Why would I say that? I don't even know where 'there' is—and I don't think you do, either. As far as I can tell, there is no there."

Dean glared at me. "Dude, do you even listen to yourself talk? 'There is no there'. That's a fine bit of vocabulary, college boy."

College boy. Dean's favorite insult. Sometimes I think he'll still be calling me that when I'm ninety—yeah, right, like that's gonna happen. But I'm getting off track, here. I turned in my seat to glare at Dean, and ended up wincing as my right side protested the abrupt change in position.

"You okay?"

"Still a little sore from the lightning," I answered without thinking, rubbing my right arm gingerly.

Dead silence.

Oops. Too late, I remembered my decision to avoid mentioning the whole struck by lightning part of getting Ted to retrieve the Babylonian coin. I knew Dean wouldn't react well to that--or maybe I've just gotten too used to keeping secrets from my brother. It wasn't retaliation for him not telling me about Hell, though, I'm sure of that. Well, pretty sure.

"Wanna clarify that for me, Sam?"

It sounded like a question, but I knew an order when I heard one. "Hope overheard us talking to Ted about the wishing well. She was desperate to keep her love alive, so she hightailed it down to the wishing well and, uh, wished that I'd drop dead or something. I was trying to persuade Ted to do the right thing when I felt this massive jolt of pain and fell to the ground. Ted told me later that I was struck by lightning, and that's when he really understood what he'd done. He removed the coin from the fountain and gave it to me."

Our just-completed hunt had featured a giant bi-polar talking teddy bear and a kid with super-strength. Somehow, I couldn't find a way to add: "Oh, yeah, and I got struck by lightning and died. But don't worry; it was just for a minute—two, tops."

"Struck by lightning? _You died_?" Dean's voice was raw.

"I'm not sure—I might've just passed out. Lots of people survive being struck by lightning. Remember that forest ranger, he got struck seven times and was still around to talk about it?" I didn't give Dean time to answer, just continued speaking. "Anyway, I woke up on the ground, lying on my right side. It's sore, but that's to be expected. Just another physical manifestation of a rescinded wish—like Audrey's parents being sunburned from their stay in Bali."

Dean's only reply was to swerve the Impala into the exit lane. He didn't stop until we pulled into the parking lot of the Wild West Motel. He jammed the car into park, grabbed the keys and stalked into the office, returning less than five minutes later with the key to our room. A few minutes later, we were settled in the room.

He still hadn't said a word. Huh. Either Dean was being remarkably restrained, waiting to blow his stack in the privacy of our motel room, or he was so mad he didn't trust himself to speak until he'd calmed down. But he made damn sure that I put my duffel on the bed farthest from the door before he stomped off into the bathroom.

Okay, I'm voting for the later. I admit Dean has a proprietary interest in me being alive. I'm only kicking and breathing because he'd died and gone to Hell to save me. And we don't talk about it, but I'm pretty sure that I'm a big part of why Castiel rescued Dean from Hell, too.

I glanced at the closed bathroom door, noting for the first time that it had a batwing saloon door painted on its whitewashed surface. After that, I took a good, long look at our motel room. The motel was trying to carry out its namesake through its furnishings. The wall behind the double beds had a mural on it that strongly reminded me of the town storefronts in _Bonanza_. At least these beds didn't have those ridiculous and dangerous longhorns above them like that inn in Texas; they were simple iron bedsteads. Some old-fashioned sepia photographs that looked real and several faux WANTED posters served as the room's artwork. If Dean had been in a better mood, he would've rolled his eyes and said "Dude" upon entering.

Speak of the dev—never mind. Dean walked out of the bathroom, stretched out on the bed by the door and flicked the television on via its remote. "Bathroom's free. I even left you some hot water," he said, and then pretended to be absorbed in the TV news.

Well, hey, small talk is at least a start. I decided not to push things and took a long, hot shower. Dean was still supposedly watching TV when I sat down on my bed. "Dean—"

He interrupted me before I could say whatever was on my mind. "Go to sleep, Sammy. It's what you wanted, isn't it? A good night's sleep after a long day on the road."

Suddenly it was all about me, again. Dean will never stop being my big brother. And, yeah, I was tired and a little sore, even after my shower, but Dean needed the rest a hell of a lot more than I did. That was really why I'd whined about getting a room for the night.

I yawned—this one wasn't manufactured—and gave in, sliding under the covers. "G'night, Dean,'" I said softly, reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp. I really was tired, because I drifted off to sleep not long after that.

A noise woke me, some indeterminate time later. I opened my eyes and lay still on the bed, straining to figure out what it was. I heard it again, and it came from Dean's bed—mumbling, or maybe a soft whimper. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on; Dean was having a nightmare. Guess I should say another nightmare, as he's had more than his share, lately. Of course, being only recently returned from hell, he's got an abundance of source material. If the stubborn idiot would just talk to me about it, instead of bottling it all up inside, he wouldn't be having all these freakin' nightmares. He probably thought the same thing about me a few years back…

Well, I wasn't going to sit here and do nothing. I rolled over to the far side of my bed, away from Dean and close to the bathroom. I padded over to the bathroom, opened the door halfway and flipped on the light. This illuminated the room enough for me to see where I was going, and to make out Dean, lying on his bed. I approached cautiously, because Dean was first and foremost a hunter, and it's not wise to awaken a sleeping hunter out of the blue.

I sat gingerly on my bed, reached behind me for a pillow and tossed it. The pillow landed on Dean's feet and he jerked once, from head to toes, but contrary to what I was expecting, he didn't wake up. Other than that one jerk, his arms remained stiffly by his sides, like he was tied up or strapped down. I heard a fresh whimper, too.

Sometimes I can be amazingly obtuse. I knew Dean was having nightmares about Hell, but I never let myself dwell on what exactly that would entail. One look at Dean, and I was determined to end his nightmares. Physically trying to wake him hadn't worked, but Dean has always responded to my voice, no matter what.

"Shh, Dean, relax. It's Sammy. It was a dream, just a dream. You're not there; you're with me, in a crappy motel room in Butte, Montana." I watched in vain for some sign that I was reaching Dean, and then continued. "Butte, by the way, really is one of the ugliest towns I've been in, and that's covering a lot of ground. Hey, maybe you had the right idea, driving through and staying on the road. Guess I should've remembered that big brother is always right, huh?" I kept on in a similar vein, trying to reach Dean and calm him down with my presence and voice, like he did so many times when I was little.

"Dean, hey, wake up. You're safe with me, and you're never going to Hell again."

He actually responded to that, mumbling, "More wishful thinkin'."

I was thrilled that he was awake, until I ran over his words in my mind. "What? Dean, you're not going back—"

"When this is finished. Castiel said he'd throw me back, and I believe him." Dean wasn't quite so rigid on the bed, face mostly hidden in the shadows.

"What--? No, Dean, he can't do that to you…he's an angel, for God's sake."

"He's a dick, Sammy. Keep tryin' to tell you that." Dean sighed. "Besides, I deserve it."

"WHAT?" I felt like a broken record, repeating 'what' all the time, but he really threw me for a loop there.

"If I can't keep you from going Darkside, I'll have failed and I'll deserve anything Castiel can throw at me, and anyplace he throws me into."

"Castiel isn't sending you back to Hell. I won't let him."

"No!" Dean was wide awake now, sitting up in bed. "Sam, you can't fight Castiel, he's an angel. I know you took out Samhain, but… please, Sammy, you'll lose. We'll lose."

"I'm not gonna fight Castiel. I just meant I'd talk to him, iron out a few misperceptions."

Dean really thinks I'd fight an angel? Have we changed that much, grown that far apart? Then I paid attention to his last words: "We'll lose." Even mistakenly thinking that I was going to take on Castiel, Dean was still on my side. That took some of the sting out of the accusations he'd made after his little time-traveling jaunt to Lawrence. Maybe we haven't changed as much as I thought, and there's still hope.

Right now, what we both need is a little shut-eye. I got up, skirted my bed and shut off the bathroom light. "Go back to sleep, Dean," I said as I settled back into bed. "Tomorrow's another long day on the road to wherever it is we're going."

Dean grunted something, undoubtedly relieved that I had ended our late night chat before it got too emo for him.

Momentarily, I regretted not pushing the advantage, and getting him to talk about his nightmares. Even Dean can't keep that kind of experience bottled up forever. Sooner or later, he'll give in and talk to me, like he did after Dad's death. And when he does finally speak, and come to me looking for answers, this time I'll have something meaningful and helpful to say. God, I hope that's not just more wishful thinking.

A/N Sorry I'm so late in updating this. Hope you're continuing to read Sam's diary.


	8. Chapter 8 Guest Entry

A/N: Dean tries a novel way to reach Sam. Spoilers for 4.18

Guest Entry

By Swellison

Hey, Sammy.

Don't get your panties in a twist, I didn't read anything in here. A man has a right to privacy in his own diary, after all. Besides, we both know that you're way too smart to write down anything incriminating. I even picked a fresh page to scribble this, so you can tear it out afterwards and keep your diary pristine, untouched by anyone else's pen.

I'm not looking for answers, here, Sam. We just need to talk.

I know; Winchesters don't talk. But, more importantly, we don't **listen**, either. I should've remembered that from all the arguments you and Dad had, constantly butting heads about everything under the sun.

So I'm hoping your inner geek will respect the written word—even my words—long enough to read them. Haven't made much headway yelling at you.

I know it all started with me and my Deal with the Crossroad demon. But I had to do it; I just couldn't live without you. I never thought…

I left you with Bobby; figured he could look after you, keep an eye on you until you were back on an even keel. And then you could go back to school, and a second chance at normal. It's what you've always wanted, and you deserved another shot at it.

I left you with Bobby, but you ended up with Ruby. How screwed up is that, Sam? Maybe in the beginning, her words were my words, but she's had her own agenda for quite awhile now. Besides, I came back and I can speak for myself, so why are you still even listening to her at all? She **is** a demon.

I know you've changed since I've been gone—you **had** to, I get that.

I've changed, too. Hell will do that to a person, something that I hope and pray you never find out about, first-hand.

I know I'm late in saying this, but I understand why you went after Samhain the way you did. You lost the knife and had to use whatever you had available after that, to stay alive. I can live with that; you're alive because of that. And not only you. I told Castiel that the whole town was still alive because of what you and I did.

I know you've been using your powers more and more, too. You had to use them against Samhain. You only wanted to use them against Alistair—and you did. I wasn't totally there, but I saw what you did. Saw how you twitched your hand and Alistair flew across the room, heard how you commanded him to speak … and he did.

Awesome power you've got there, Sam. And where did **that **come from? Not so long ago, you couldn't hold your own against Alistair… now you can force the truth from his twisted, arrogant lips.

But you're still my brother…

You found me in that vanilla life that I was happily living at Sandover Bridge & Iron. Made me see that I wasn't cut out for normal, that we're a team, even though I blew you off at first. You're persistent, Sammy, I'll give you that. You made me wake up and smell the coffee, got me back to **me**, Dean Winchester. And for a little while, it felt so right. We were hunting that spirit that was haunting that comic shop. Then we bumped into Chuck and our world turned upside-down, again.

And the countdown to the Apocalypse continues.

Castiel and the other angels say I'm supposed to stop Lucifer's rising and save the world. I'm not sure I can do that; it's a tall order, even for a Winchester.

But one thing that I can and will do is this: I will save you, Sammy. I've always been able to save you, and that hasn't changed. It never will.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Well, what do you think? Does this work? Did Sam rip these pages out of his diary or not?


	9. Chapter 9 Restless

A/N This entry is part of livejournal's Summer of Sam challenge. I've had the idea for a couple of years, but the challenge made me sit down and write it, so big thanks to sendintheklowns and faye_dartmouth for organizing the Summer of Sam community's challenge.

Major spoilers for No Rest For the Wicked, tag to NRFTW. Tissue alert, too. (Minor spoilers for Lazarus Rising and I Know What You Did Last Summer)

Restless

by Swellison

May 4, 2008

Dean is dead.

Even as I'm writing the words, I can't make myself believe them.

_"No he's not! He's not dead, he can't be!"_

No, that's not true. I know he's dead. He died right in front of me. But, that's not the worst of it. He's not just dead... Dean's dead and his soul is trapped in Hell. Forever. And it's all my fault. I don't know what to do about it, either. Dean is-was the fixer in the Winchester family. I used to believe that he was invincible; there was nothing my big brother couldn't do—wouldn't do, for family.

_"For you or Dad, the things I'm willin' to do or kill, it just...it scares me sometimes."_

I can't sleep. I'm afraid of what I'll dream. Even if I just close my eyes, I'm back in New Harmony, pinned against the wall, watching helplessly while those invisible Hellhounds tear chunks out of Dean. And he's screaming...then, it was a pain-filled yell. Now, I swear I hear words...

_"No! Help! Somebody help me! Sam! SAMMM!"_

I did a lot of research on Hellhounds, trying to find a way out of Dean's deal. Typically, Hellhounds' victims look like they died naturally of a heart attack, no matter how violent the actual claiming was. But Dean's special; the Hellhounds didn't clean up afterwards. Lilith wants me to remember what he looked like—as if I can ever forget. Dean...

Bobby got us out of New Harmony. I remember riding in the back seat, Dean stretched out under a blanket, next to me, head cradled in my lap. Like he was sleeping, with his eyes open.

We stopped at somebody's cabin after we'd been driving for awhile. I'm pretty sure we'd crossed a state line by then. Bobby's got connections all over the place. I settled Dean on the bed and got out the med kit. I painstakingly cleaned the blood off his face and neck, and then I looked at the rest of the carnage and I lost it. I sank to the floor, burying my head in the mattress next to Dean's still hand and cried, wishing things were different. Wishing we hadn't fought so much this last year—Dean's last year. Wishing we'd seen the Grand Canyon, instead of tackling the Morton House on leap year's day. Wishing Dean hadn't made that cursed deal with the Crossroads Demon in the first place...

I heard Bobby clear his throat and got to my feet.

"There's a clearing not too far from here, Sam. Nice and remote, a good place for a hunter's send-off."

I knew exactly what he meant and I was suddenly, furiously resolved. "NO! We're not salting and burning Dean like he's something evil!"

"It's what he'd want-"

"I said no! If you torch him, I swear to God, I'll leap into the fire and burn with him!"

I remember how shocked Bobby looked after I said that, but he shouldn't have been. He has to know what we Winchesters are like by now. He raised a hand, placating, "Sam-"

"We have to bury him, Bobby. Dean'll need his body when I get him back home." I have to believe that; it's the only hope I've got left. I couldn't keep Dean from going to Hell, but I can bring him back, somehow, someday.

Bobby stared at me, then he reached up and patted my shoulder. "Okay, Sam, okay." He sighed. "Look, it's too late to do anything tonight, be daylight in a coupla hours. Go try to get some rest and I'll finish up in here."

"I can't sleep!" I protested, knowing I couldn't sleep with Dean in the next room. I picked up a clean cloth, steeling myself to prepare Dean...prepare Dean's body for burial. Dean's done everything for me; I should be able to do this one last thing for him.

Bobby took the cloth from my hand. "Figure out where we're gonna bury him. I'll take care of Dean."

I met Bobby's eyes and saw loss, grief and devastation—what he saw in mine. I realized that Bobby needed some time with Dean, too. Time to say good-bye. He wasn't there when...

"Where are we?" I asked and Bobby told me we were in Mattoon, Illinois. I left the room, got the laptop out of the Impala. I opened the trunk, intent on grabbing my duffel and the laptop, and I saw Dean placing his duffel in the trunk, tossing me a shotgun, counting the knives and stakes in the weapons box...

I slammed the lid closed, wincing afterwards.

_"Take care of my wheels."_

I bolted for the cabin and started searching the internet for a suitable burial place for Dean. A fine and private place... Illinois has a lot of small towns, but I finally picked Pontiac. Dean would understand. It was the closest I could get to Impala or Chevy. Actually, Illinois has two Pontiacs in it. When I saw that the northern one was in _Living_ston County, I knew I'd found the right location. I scanned the images around town, concentrating on a wooded area outside of the town proper and wrote down the directions to Pontiac. It wasn't far from Mattoon, a little over two hours. That'd give us plenty of time to take care of business.

Bobby approached me when I was finishing up with the directions to Pontiac.

"Sam, I, uh, need some fresh clothes for Dean."

"I'll get 'em." I retrieved Dean's duffel and hauled out his blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt. I added his blue-green jacket and handed the bundle to Bobby.

"Y'don't think he'd want to—have his leather jacket?"

"No." That was a lie. Dean loved that jacket almost as much as the Impala. But I couldn't give it up, right now. I needed it—Dean would understand. He's always given me everything. His jacket. His car. His heart. His life...

I guess I got lost in my thoughts, then. Or buried in the past. Anyway, next thing I knew, Bobby was back, pressing a cup of tea into my hand. I wasn't hungry but I drank the tea and it felt good on my raw throat.

Just like it felt good to stretch out on the couch, after Bobby coaxed me into moving to the living room. Next thing I knew it was lights out. I woke up mid-afternoon. Bobby'd put a sleeping pill in my tea. I should've been angry, but I was just so relieved that I didn't have any dreams, or didn't remember them if I did.

I heard the sound of hammering from outside and followed it. Bobby was working on a rectangular piece of pine, the rest of the coffin already assembled and lying on the ground. Wordlessly, I started helping Bobby with the lid. When we finished, we manhandled the lidless coffin into the bedroom, set it on the bed next to Dean and lowered him into it. Bobby left us alone.

Dean looked like he was sleeping, a little cramped in the tight space, maybe. He'd learned a long time ago to grab sleep where he could get it, just one of the hundred hunting rules Dad had taught us.

_"Sam, remember what Dad taught you, okay?"_

I slipped a cigarette lighter into Dean's pocket, because no hunter goes anywhere without one. Then I gently lifted his head and removed the amulet from around his neck. I clutched it in my hand, staring at the dangling gold head.

_"Thanks, Sam. I—I love it."_

Silent tears trickled down my face. I slipped the necklace on, tucking it under my t-shirt. "I'm sorry, Dean." I wiped the tears from my face. "Good-bye for now...jerk."

_"Bitch."_

Bobby came in with the coffin lid and we placed it on top and hammered it closed. It felt like every nail went straight through my heart.

We put the coffin in the Impala's trunk and headed for Pontiac. Bobby drove and I rode shotgun. Neither of us said a word. After a few miles, I reached for Dean's cassette box. My hand shook as I grabbed a random tape and slid it into the player. Metallica blared from the speakers, just like Dean would've wanted it to.

We got to Pontiac right after sunset. I found the woods and after some tramping around, we found a small clearing that would do. I started digging while Bobby pulled the car as close as he could get it, then grabbed the other shovel and dug with me. I was used to working in tandem, digging up graves with Dean. We made good time, the task feeling comfortingly normal, until I realized that we hadn't struck a casket lid. There was nothing buried in this grave's hole...yet.

A few minutes later, Bobby called a halt to the proceedings. We trudged back to the Impala and returned, carrying Dean's coffin between us. We put it into the ground the old-fashioned way, the coffin cradled by two thick rope loops that we payed out as we gently lowered the casket till it touched bottom. I blanked my mind as we started filling in the hole, concentrating on doing the job right. It was the least I could do.

When we finished and the ground looked as undisturbed as we could make it, Bobby planted a simple cross. It was two rough-hewn pieces from an old barn, the horizontal one faintly showing carved markings that could've been initials, weathered by time. If anyone found this, it would look like a forgotten grave from Illinois' wagon trail days. Perfect.

Bobby stood to the right of the cross and I knew he was going to say something. "Dean was one of the best hunters I knew."

"He's an even better brother," I choked out, ghosting my fingers along the top of the cross. "This isn't permanent, Dean, I swear."

Bobby didn't say anything after that; we just walked back to the Impala. It was well past midnight and we both reeked after hours of grave digging. Bobby slid behind the wheel and turned the Impala for South Dakota. It's a nine hour drive to Sioux Falls and Bobby drove all night. He grudgingly let me drive the last hundred miles or so while he catnapped in the passenger seat.

Dean and I both knew this highway like the back of our hands. It was way too easy to picture Dean laughing and barreling down the road, anticipating the pie that'd be waiting for us at Bobby's. I got caught up in the memory, jarred back to the present to find the Impala's right wheels on the shoulder. I corrected course, got her back on the road, no harm done. Lucky for me, Bobby slept through the whole incident. But I paid more attention to the road for the rest of the trip.

Now I'm here at Bobby's, scribbling away like mad in my diary. Maybe if I write it all down, I can get it out of my head. Yeah, right.

May 6, 2008

Bobby's been watching me like a hawk, pushing food at me, making sure I eat and sleep. Like a remake of when Dean and I were here after Dad died...only not.

He's trying to get me to open up, too. Told me a few stories from Dean's early hunting days, and when I was at Stanford, things I'd never heard before. They were great stories, too. Bobby can tell a mean tale when he sets his mind to it-and I liked hearing them, but they only make me miss Dean more. If that's even possible.

I washed the Impala yesterday. Figured she needed a thorough cleaning after Bobby and I drove her from Pontiac, so I went all out, hand washed and waxed, top to bottom. It felt like Dean was critiquing everything I did, too. Damn, he loved his car...and he gave her to me.

I drove her into town, to pick up groceries and supplies for Bobby. He was apprehensive about me driving, but we both know I need to start doing something. Dean's presence permeates that car, though. There isn't an inch of the Impala that I can't look at and call up a memory of Dean. Washing the car, patting the roof, legs sticking out from underneath, working on the engine, buried under the hood. I got distracted, and ran off the road, again.

_"Hey, you better take care of that car. Or, I swear, I'll haunt your ass."_

I pulled off the side of the road and actually thought about it. What if I wrecked the Impala, would Dean come streaming out of Hell and haunt me? If that were true, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I know that Lilith's never gonna let Dean escape her grasp that easily.

No matter how much Dean loves his car, it's not going to be enough to free him from Hell. No, Dean can't get out. So, what's left? That thought nagged me all the way back to Bobby's. As I was unloading the supplies, I glanced up and saw the devil's trap on the ceiling.

_"...I swear to God I will march into Hell myself and I will slaughter each and every one of you sons of bitches, so help me God!'_

Dean can't get out, but I can get in! I already know about the Devil's Gate in Wyoming, and Bobby said it was "a Devil's Gate", which means there's more than one. We don't have the Colt anymore, but a different Devil's Gate would have a different key...

I glanced around, noting all the books scattered in Bobby's front room. Bobby probably had the biggest occult library in South Dakota. A week ago, he, Dean and I had been frantically tearing through it, looking for a way to stop the Hellhounds. This time, I'm doing it right. I'm going to systematically read every book in Bobby's library. Thank God I learned how to speed-read at Stanford.

I hastily finished unloading the groceries, came back to the living room, grabbed a tome and started reading. One down.

May 8, 2008

Bobby's not sure what to make of my sudden zest for research. I told him the bare bones of my plan, and I know he's skeptical about its success. But I'm also eating and sleeping, so he's letting me be. Even trusted me enough to fly down to Indiana yesterday. He's retrieving his Chevelle, and driving it back here.

I stopped reading the latest textbook and rubbed my eyes. I need to remember to make something for dinner, Bobby's going to be tired and hungry when he gets home. I glanced at my watch; I still had time to wade through another book or two.

I finished my current book and reached for the next one. It didn't look very promising, wasn't even really old. But I'm reading every book, I'm not leaving any stone unturned, or page unread. A few chapters in, I came to a hand-drawn diagram. I blinked, thought I'd recognized it. This was a schematic of a revolver. I flipped to the front of the book and read the copyright. 1837.

I returned to the schematic page and read the inked notes from the drawing's originator. It took a few seconds for the name to register: S. Colt. I stared at the drawings, filled with barrel specifications and measurements, notes on the grip, annotations about the triggering mechanism. These drawings weren't just for a Colt revolver, they described _the_ Colt, the gun that Dad had stolen from the vampires, and Bela had eventually stolen from us.

I can pay a gunsmith to follow these drawings and make an exact, perfect replica of Colt's revolver. And I can open the Devil's Gate with it, and get Dean out of Hell. This is going to work.

I packed the book and the rest of my stuff and left a note for Bobby, so he won't worry, or think I did something stupid. Then I slid behind the Impala's wheel and headed for the nearest Indian gambling resort. I'm going to hire the best damned gunsmith in the United States, and that's going to take a considerable amount of money. I need to raise it, fast.

May 11, 2008

I've got an appointment tomorrow with Hank Gallagher, the top-rated gunsmith in Colorado—in all of the western United States. He's intrigued by my request, and my demand for meticulous attention to detail. I told him I had a schematic from the 1830's and I could hear him practically salivating over the phone.

So, I'm driving towards his office in Denver, listening to Green Day on my iPod. I had to have something in the Impala that doesn't remind me of Dean, to keep my attention on the road, not the past.

May 15, 2008

I picked up the Colt today, and she's a beauty. Despite the rush job I insisted on, Gallagher paid strict attention to detail, even used a laser to cut out all the pieces to the exact specifications. He wanted to buy the book from me but I told him it wasn't for sale. I let him keep a copy of the schematic though and we parted on good terms. I'm heading for southwestern Wyoming now, stopped to grab a bite to eat and scribble this down at a diner. I even had a piece of pie. Next time I order pie, Dean'll be here to share it with me.

May 16, 2008

Oh God, it didn't work. Turns out the bullets weren't the only special thing about Colt's revolver. I can't fault Gallagher, though. The gun slid into the Devil's Gate perfectly. It just didn't activate the unlocking mechanism afterwards. I waited around a half an hour, and then I finally admitted defeat and left.

Drove to the closest bar and ordered a bottle.

The nearest crossroads is two towns over, and I'm heading there now.

_"This ends now. I'm ending it. I don't care what it takes."_


End file.
